The Refuge
by KiraKira-Kirimi
Summary: Nine years have passed since the boys escaped the island. Ralph is being treated for PTSD in an asylum, but his doctor does not understand him. And a new patient has arrived at the asylum . . . Written for my English project.


**The Refuge**

The door creaked as it swung wide, and, reluctantly, the doctor glanced up. His stomach churned in frustration, and the usual twinkle of his eyes was deadened with fatigue. There was displeased haze settled over his mind, like a heavy fog that rolled in from the sea, and the dark-gold of twilight streaming through his window served only to remind him how late it really was. But the doctor knew better than to allow his exhaustion to show on his face. Setting his tightly-pressed lips in a firm smile, he forced an expression of calm over his features.

"Hullo, Nurse Adams. Hullo, Ralph. Is it time for our meeting already?"

"Yes, sir," murmured the young man at the side of his escort. His fair hair had been cut, pushed back from where they had once hung troublesomely over his eyes, and his face had been scrubbed roughly – now, no stray smudge of dirt dared taint his pale skin for fear of a ruthless eviction. Even his nails had been cleaned until they shone.

But for all his careful grooming, Ralph was no longer the boy he'd once been. His blue eyes seemed gray; lifeless and blank, they'd sunk into his head like a pair of opaque marbles. His breathing was shallow, and his bones were grotesquely, awkwardly visible under the dirt-free ash of his skin. Like a leaf caught in an autumn wind, he seemed to tremble on the very spot. "Yes, sir," he whispered once more.

"Well, isn't that lovely? It's so nice to see you again." The doctor let his welcoming smile broaden. But Ralph's bloodless lips didn't so much as twitch in response.

"Yes, it is," he echoed dully.

The doctor's friendly expression did not falter, but somehow, it seemed as if the life and sincerity had suddenly fled.

"Nurse Adams." He addressed the woman standing beside Ralph, forced nonchalance frozen on his lips. "I have it from here. You may wait outside."

"Of course, Doctor."

Unfortunately, however, it seemed that Nurse Adams took with her every feigned pretense of relaxation or calm; tension cloaked the room so thickly that it could be felt bushing their skin, and the hairs on the back of the doctor's neck rose with a chill. He smiled stiffly, but Ralph simply stared.

In the far distance, a cuckoo clock chimed. Six o'clock.

"So, Ralph." The doctor delicately weaved his fingers together. "How are you feeling today?"

"No more so than ever."

"You're well?"

"Possibly."

The doctor's eyebrows arched somewhat, and his sympathetic gaze grew unwittingly condescending. "Come now. Do you really expect me to believe that?"

Ralph did not reply.

Undaunted, however, the doctor continued: "Nurse Adams told me she heard you crying last night. What was that all about?"

" . . . Nothing."

"Did you have row with the others?"

"No."

"Then, what? Do tell me, Ralph. I want to help you."

For a long moment, the heavy silence dragged on. Ralph stared at his feet, clearly unwilling to meet the wide-eyed gaze of his doctor as the breath caught in his chest. He wasn't sure why, but something deep within him forbade him from truly believing the doctor's earnest, compassionate words.

"Ralph. What have we said about being open?"

He flinched away, as if stung. "It . . . it was a nightmare. A nightmare."

"Well, that's nothing to be ashamed of," the doctor assured him, misinterpreting the hesitation in his voice. "Why don't you tell me what the nightmare was about?"

Ralph swallowed, inwardly pushing away the dark fear that gripped at his limbs. "I was back on the island . . . and Simon was alive."

For a moment, he trailed away uncertainly. But the doctor nodded, wordlessly urging him on.

"He gave me a fruit. He was smiling and gentle, and he leaned against me. He touched my arm . . . but when I turned to look at him, he suddenly vanished. And I was alone. There was darkness everywhere. But Simon was gone."

The doctor was shaking his head, his eyes dark with regret and exasperation. Suddenly, Ralph felt his chest tighten, and if it had been possible, he would have snatched his words back and pushed them deep into the hollows of his heart – where they would be to stay. But, devoid of tangible words to grasp, his fingers curled desperately into fists so rigid that his nails nearly broke the skin of his palms.

"Ralph, Ralph, Ralph," the doctor sighed. "Have you not yet dealt with these . . . feelings . . . about Simon?"

"No." He didn't want to.

"Why ever not? I know, it seems almost impossible, but you _can_ control these emotions. They are only a result of guilt. You feel you should have protected him better than you did, and in order to compensate, your mind created these feelings. They are not you. They are not real."

"But," Ralph whispered weakly, as if frightened his reply might bring the heavens down upon him. "It started before. When we first landed, he went exploring the island with me and Jack. And he stroked my arm then. I wasn't worried then, about anyone. But I still felt . . . this feeling." As he spoke, he could feel Simon's fingers brushing his skin once more. His right arm burned with the memory, and his eyes fell to stare at the invisible hand caressing his wrist.

"False recollections," the doctor sagely replied. "Your emotions are creating memories of events that never truly occurred, in order to give themselves a semblance of truth."

"But it happened." Ralph's voice quavered slightly, and his dull eyes were wide and pleading. "I know it did."

"That's what they _want_ you to believe. You have to see the lies where they are."

"Who's 'they'?"

Silence draped itself over the room once more as the doctor and patient stared into one another's eyes, each bidding the other to understand what he knew. Ralph pressed his lips tightly together, shadowing an old determination he'd not touched for years. But the doctor drew upon a persistence that he used daily and stared back, understanding and aloof.

"You, Ralph. 'They' are you."

But Ralph seemed dubious. "I think the feelings are real," he slowly replied. "It doesn't feel like I'm creating false memories or anything."

"You wouldn't know, of course."

"No, really. I mean, I never would have stayed distant from Jack if it wasn't for Simon . . ."

Now, it was the doctor's turn to look doubtful. "Why don't you explain that to me?"

Ralph frowned, deep misgivings curling within his chest. He could not convince himself that the doctor would believe him – or indeed, even lend him an ear that was not deafened with bias. The doctor was blind with self-conviction, closed to all possible realities that conflicted with his own interpretations. Ralph should have never opened his mouth; he should have remained staunch and mute, like some breathing, life-size doll.

But he'd already begun, and now he had nothing to lose. "I – I," he started haltingly. "I mean, it was when we were looking for the beast. We all went out together, and Simon was with us, but then, because _Jack_ forgot about part of the island that we'd have to climb over, we weren't going to get back until after dark. So we had to send someone back to camp to tell Piggy we'd be late, and before I could stop him, Simon said he'd go."

He trailed off momentarily, as if struggling against some powerful force that raged within him. The doctor said nothing, and after a long, tense moment, Ralph finally whispered: "Simon. In the forest, all on his own, with the beast somewhere around. I was furious, and furious at Jack, because if he hadn't forgotten about that part of the island, we could have told Piggy before we left. And Simon wouldn't be having to fend against the beast on his own.

"I only just then really saw Jack. It was because I was so furious for him putting Simon in danger that I decided I wanted nothing to do with him. Simon saved my sanity." But then Ralph glanced up, an unreadable look on his face, and amended: "I mean, my humanity."

The doctor watched him wordlessly for a moment, almost calculating in his expression. When he replied, his voice was soft and pacifying, as if calming a panicking child – but he did not notice Ralph flinch away at the tone. "Can you not see the flaws in that logic?"

"What . . . what do you mean?" There was a sinking feeling in his chest; the doctor's ears head been as deaf as he'd feared.

"I mean," the doctor said. "You were angry Jack would send _anyone_ off into the forest alone, not just Simon in particular. It's your false feelings that are causing you to think that it was Simon's welfare, specifically, you were worried about."

Ralph chose not to reply, and his misting eyes fell to the floor. There was no point in attempting to explain beyond what he already had. Granted, he could describe the bizarre anxiety he'd felt whenever Simon would vanish, or perhaps he could convey the mind-numbing horror that consumed him when Simon confessed to wandering the forest alone during the night. He could try to tell the doctor how he'd lost his carefully-tended temper at Jack's implications that Simon never said anything worthwhile at assemblies, and how, when Piggy tried to touch his arm the same way Simon had, Ralph had been unable to suppress a shudder of deep discomfort. But whatever he said, he knew it would be in vain. The doctor had made up his mind long ago, and nothing would sway his beliefs.

And unfortunately, the doctor, blind and deaf as he was, had not quite finished. "As you corrected yourself earlier, Simon didn't save your sanity. He stole it from you."

Ralph's expression suddenly closed. The sorrow vanished, only to be replaced with cold apathy and numbness, and his eyes were glass once more. There was no hurt; there was no frustration, loneliness, or even longing. There was only a void, sucking in all traces of lingering emotion. After all, to be unfeeling was far better than to be in pain.

Ralph stared coldly at the doctor, his fist clenched tightly around the cross at his neck. There was a wall between them now; on one side, the doctor sat in peaceful oblivion and self-righteousness, pitying his unstable, delusional patient. On the other, Ralph had withdrawn into the refuge of his own mind – a refuge where nothing could touch him. Him and the Spirit: that was all that he was, and it was all that he needed. The doctor was irrelevant.

"After all," the meaningless doctor was saying. "at first, you were hardly distraught about Simon's death. You said so yourself – and that's not typical behavior of one who would feel so strongly for the deceased."

Of course he wouldn't understand, and of course he would misinterpret what Ralph had told him before. He could never know what it really had been like.

At the time, no one had been truly able to believe that Simon was dead – even in life, Simon had never been around much, and it only felt as if he'd slipped out on his own again. Ralph _knew _Simon was gone – truly, he did – but he simply couldn't comprehend it. He would say it over and over again – "Simon. That was Simon." – trying to make it sink in, but it was always unreal. It was only when the warship pulled away from the harbor that it truly hit him: Simon was _dead_.

At the realization, numbness had washed over Ralph, sucking him deep into its void of nothingness for the first time. His eyes misted over, and his tone had grown flat. He would never smile or laugh, but nor could he frown. His expression was blank, empty, and helpless – for Ralph was no longer anything but a ghost.

Years had gone by, but the apathy had never vanished. Just under the soft skin of feeling that would cautiously grow, Ralph was frozen, rigid with numbness, ready to be consumed by the void at any given opportunity. Light would begin to shine in his eyes, and occasionally, something like peace would creep into his voice. But he knew it wasn't to last.

His gaze still fixed firmly on the doctor, Ralph didn't even so much as blink. The doctor would never understand. He would never quite be able to accept the truth as it was, to truly let go of his own convictions. But it didn't matter – to Ralph, nothing mattered. He was numb, and beyond his refuge of his own mind and the Spirit, nothing existed. Nothing was real.

Finally, the doctor seemed to notice Ralph's distant expression. His own eyes darkened in frustration, and he let out a sigh. "Ralph, you came from that island nine years ago, and you've been at this asylum for five. But you haven't gotten any better. You must make more of an effort." But even as he spoke, he knew there was no point; in his refuge, Ralph could not hear him.

"Nurse Adams," the doctor called. "We're done in here. You may bring Ralph back to his room."

Obediently, the door creaked open again. "How did it go?" Nurse Adams inquired, as if she hadn't heard every word. "Does he still have . . . romantic feelings for that boy?"

The doctor flinched. "They aren't romantic. You know that full-well."

"But does he?"

"Yes, he does." Heaving a heavy sigh, he added: "He won't listen to me, whatever I say. I am beginning to wonder if he even realizes that they're both boys."

Ralph stood rigidly, staring through them as they were glass. And although he stood barely two feet away, he showed no sign of having heard the doctor at all.

----------------------------------

On the second floor of the asylum, directly above the doctor's office, in fact, a pair of nurses stood huddled together. Heads bent close, they cast wary glances at a dull, windowless room at the end of the hall, and their soft whispers clung to the walls like the life-breath of rumor.

"Did you hear about that new patient?" the first nurse hissed excitedly. Her silky, black hair fell across her face as she spoke, as if veiling her words from the world. "He's such a nut!"

"Aren't they all?" Infuriatingly, the second nurse seemed almost bored with the talk.

"No, I mean this one is worse than the others. You know, they say he's _never_ going leave."

"Nor are half the others."

"Oh, confound this!" the first nurse snapped. "If you're going to be like that, I shan't tell you who he _murdered_."

"He _murdered_?" the second gasped, as if having suddenly forgotten her vow of indifference. "Then why isn't he in jail? Why is he here?"

"On orders of the victim's family," the first nurse whispered back. "He showed no remorse, and they wanted to get him sane enough to make him feel bad for what he did."

"But _who_ was it?"

"A young girl. She was hardly four years old, and he decided to throw stones at her until she stopped moving."

"_Why_?"

"Because he wanted to, he said."

A disturbed silence fell on the hall, somehow darkening the burning bulbs overhead. The two nurses glanced at one another, each feeling an inexplicable terror begin to curl deep in the pit of their stomach.

"How . . . horrifying," the second nurse murmured softly, but the word could not convey all she had meant it to.

Regardless, the first nurse understood perfectly. "Indeed."

----------------------------------------

There was only one occupant of the windowless room at the end of the hall. A pasty, yellow light illuminated the shadows, but, like a creature of the night, the room's occupant had crept into a dark corner where the soft light was sickly and weak. At the same time, however, he couldn't truly escape into the darkness, and his features were only better-defined by the contrast of shades.

Puberty had been good to Roger. Tall and lean, he seemed almost majestic, with his broad shoulders and clearly-toned muscles. All semblance of child-like pudginess had melted from his face, leaving his cheekbones sharp and unforgiving, and his porcelain skin was unmarred by the scars of acne. Even his movements were slow and deliberate, perhaps even thoughtful, as if he were lost high in the clouds.

But for all his charismatic charm, there was just something about Roger that was distinctly revolting. His demeanor was downright terrifying; it was merciless, uncaring, and dangerous, like that of a hungry tiger – and particularly, a tiger with a taste for human flesh.

In his dimly-lit corner, Roger crouched on the floor. His back was hunched, as if against the tendrils of light that threatened to invade his sweet darkness, and his head was bent to his chest. He was staring intently at something that lay in his palm, lost in his own enraptured fascination.

A small moth, no larger than a pound-coin, fluttered helplessly against the skin of his hand. But it had only one wing; try as it might, the lonely remainder was simply useless. Silvery powder coated Roger's palm as the moth struggled desperately to defy the laws of aerodynamics, and, mesmerized, Roger lifted his hand.

The moth's efforts grew frantic.

Roger softly inhaled, as if breathing in the waves of terror and pain that the tiny creature radiated. A strange look came over his face, and his hand positively trembled in something akin to excitement. Carefully lifting the other fist from his side, Roger let one finger extend, then another.

A soft snow fell around the moth. The dust shone silver in the light as it danced downwards, and Roger seemed almost hypnotized by the glimmer. The moth, however, trembled as it was powdered with the remnants of its own wing. This amused Roger. His second hand, still shining with the silver of wing-dust, hovered like some powerful bird of prey and cast an ominous shadow over the moth.

And then it dove for the kill.

The moth thrashed as, millimeter by painstaking millimeter, Roger pulled it apart. The remaining wing was the first to go, followed by each individual leg. The feathery feelers were pulled from its head, but when the moth was nothing more than a shivering midsection, Roger suddenly paused. He frowned, almost pensive, and stared at the dying moth in his palm. But his eyes were like stone – gray, cold, and unfeeling – and compassion had not touched him in years. His finger came down, slowly and meticulously squeezing the moth's innards out of its body. And for once, a ghost of a smile brushed at his lips.

You know, they say he's _never_ going to leave.

9


End file.
